Sloth
by Svetlanacat
Summary: We excuse our sloth under the pretext of difficulty. Try again ! A little pre-pre-slash. And it wasn't quite complete...


_ I did a mistake : I didn't save the right version and there were a few lines missing ( the complete end of the story... and details abouts the two songs... Sorry..._

-Will he come ?

Of course, he will. I am... I am sure he will make it. He owes him that.

People around were appalled and gave them some withering looks. They stopped whispering.

The crowd was silent. Not silent as a crowd usually is. No. Silent. Really, completely silent. They hardly breathed. Faces were grim. Eyes were blank. Red. Misty. Wet.

A distant murmur suddenly grew. It came from the entrance and spread over the large room. Then the crowd split up into two parts, clearing a narrow way.

And they saw them. The Old Man walked first, with a faraway look Napoleon Solo followed him avoiding all eye contact. The murmur stopped as they crossed the room. Alexander Waverly reached the platform, motioning his CEA to come with him. Both of them faced now the front. The Old Man put his hand in his pocket, and got out sheets of paper. From another pocket, he got his eyeglasses. The crow had gathered again, still silent. Waverly looked at the paper, at the eyeglasses, and put them on the little table. Napoleon Solo was a statue. Waverly peeked at him, cleared his voice and began to speak.

He could have spoken one second. One minute. One hour. Nobody could tell. Everyone was really sorry. Sorry for the fellow they had lost. Sorry for the fellow he had left. Sorry because there was nothing they could do.

Alexander Waverly should have asked him to say something. It was the CEA's duty to pronounce some words of eulogy on a dead agent... But the Old Man hadn't. Napoleon Solo hated himself for his cowardice, but all his world was crumbling around him.

-... this song, that we'll listen now. He had chosen first the original song, in French, from Jacques Brel « Le Moribond ». We changed it for the English version, "Seasons in the Sun". Let's listen.

_Goodbye to you, my trusted friend._  
_We've known each other since we're nine or ten._  
_Together we climbed hills or trees._

He choked and felt a raw panic overwhelming him. That, he wouldn't stand...

_Goodbye my friend, it's hard to die,_  
_when all the birds are singing in the sky,_  
_Now that the spring is in the air._

Napoleon Solo jerked, pushed away the small table, and rushed out the room, followed by worried looks.

He ran in the streets, ran, ran, and ran again, till he was out of breath. Panting, choking, he looked around. He found himself in front of The Russian Café. Of course. No luck, just ... habit.

Most people could meditate beside a relative's, a friend's grave. It meant something. Illya's grave would be empty. They knew for sure that he was dead. But there was no body. No doubts. No body.

Napoleon Solo came in and asked for a Russian tea. He hated Russian tea... The bartender knew better than to say anything.

All he had left was this damned cup of tea. And his memories. Good, happy memories. He was haunted anyway by one idea. An unbearable guilt feeling. Oh, not that he could have saved Illya. Not that he could have done anything... No. Such a guilt feeling, he could have dealt with. One way or another.

His guilt feeling was more insidious. He was eaten up with remorse. A very cruel remorse. He had left something undone. And he knew what. He hadn't said something he should have. Because it was difficult. Too difficult. Difficult ? Where was the difficulty ? Just the slightest effort. He had just procrastinated. Again and again.

A thing you can do when you have your whole life ahead of you, not when you are a section 2 Uncle agent. Difficulty had been a poor excuse. It just had been... sloth.

* * *

The small apartment was too familiar. It was no use to set the alarm, now. Napoleon Solo looked around. He would have to sort all Illya's things. And he wasn't sure that he could. But he had to. He wouldn't keep anything. Except for... a book ? A record ? He bitterly sneered. All books, all records. Illya would never forgive him, if he let one. On the top of the bookshelf, covered with dust, a small black book. Napoleon Solo carefully caught it, blew the dust away, and can't help smiling.

* * *

_-Illya, partner, do you know that it's you first birthday, in New York ? I have a gift for you !_

_-Napoleon, I don't need anything. In Russia, we didn't..._

_-Shhhhh...Looks, Illya. It's a book. You love books..._

* * *

It was a dictionary. Illya was desperately fluent in many languages. He spoke a perfect English. Perfect. English. And he was mortified with his shortcomings about American idiomatic expressions. So Napoleon had offered him a dictionary... He suspected the Russian of having learned it by heart... This, he would keep.

He leafed it through. An envelopp flied. He caught it, astonished to read his name on it. He opened it and found what looked like a letter.

_My friend,_

_you read this letter. It means that I am dead. I am ashamed to say that, but I should have told you something for a long time, my friend. And I always found good, very good reasons to delay. It was difficult. Difficult ? No. It just needed time, and a small effort. As Quintilian said : « We excuse our sloth under pretext of difficulty. » I lazily kept silent. And now it is too late. But I tell you. I love you, Napoleon. Wherever I may be, I still love you._

_Illya_

* * *

The wooden cabin was meagrely furnished, but it was warm, and safe. A dark haired man was tossing and turning in bed.

Napoleon Solo opened his eyes, panting. A relaxed Russian was asleep beside him. He shook a reluctant shoulder.

-Mmmm...

-Illay, wake up !

-Napoleon ! It's your turn ! I went on guard for three hours and...

-Don't be lazy, Illya. We assumed the mission, but it's about midnight... I have something important to tell you, that I don't want to procrastinate. I love you.

-Oh ? Yes. So do I, Napoleon. Good night.

* * *

Brel's song "Le Moribond"' 1961), although sad, is (a little) less depressing than Terry Jack's Seasons in the Sun (1974). The dying man wants his friends to laugh, to dance, to enjoy themselves during his burial...

Adieu l'Émile je t'aimais bien  
Adieu l'Émile je t'aimais bien, tu sais  
On a chanté les mêmes vins  
On a chanté les mêmes filles  
On a chanté les mêmes chagrins  
Adieu l'Émile je vais mourir  
C'est dur de mourir au printemps, tu sais  
Mais j'pars aux fleurs la paix dans l'âme  
Car vu qu't'es bon comme du pain blanc  
Je sais qu'tu prendras soin d'ma femme  
J'veux qu'on rie  
J'veux qu'on danse  
J'veux qu'on s'amuse comme des fous  
J'veux qu'on rie  
J'veux qu'on danse  
Quand c'est qu'on m'mettra dans l'trou

Goodbye to you, my trusted friend.  
We've known each other since we're nine or ten.  
Together we climbed hills or trees.  
Learned of love and ABC's,  
skinned our hearts and skinned our knees.  
Goodbye my friend, it's hard to die,  
when all the birds are singing in the sky,  
Now that the spring is in the air.  
Pretty girls are everywhere.  
When you see them I'll be there.  
We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun.  
But the hills that we climbed  
were just seasons out of time.


End file.
